Posthuman Blues

Last night I half-watched "Veronica Mars" while Web-surfing, then promptly collapsed into bed. I experienced a fleeting episode of sleep paralysis in which an "alien" seemed to lift my fingers to its mouth and lingeringly kiss them. (We swapped some sort of garbled telepathic dialogue which, at the time, I thought was marginally interesting and perhaps blog-worthy, but now I can't remember what was "said.")

The "alien" left quickly, and I tried to turn my head to watch it depart through my bedroom door. I honestly don't know if I "saw" anything or not, but my impression was that the being was pale -- possibly luminous -- and taller than the gray, drone-like beings that feature in so many accounts.

Rest assured this "encounter" was pure hynopompic cinema, not an actual visitation. I more or less knew this when it was happening, and it's abundantly clear now. So here I am playing "debunker" again, describing an event that I insist never really happened except on a semi-conscious level. Yet -- and this is critical -- I'm not about to claim that all reported alien visitations are neurochemical anomalies. For all I know, some are all-too-real.

In a bittersweet sense, I wish last night's episode had been the real thing; the idea of an (evidently) friendly alien darting into my room to give me a quick display of affection, unencumbered by forbidding probes and weird lights, isn't entirely unpleasant.